#AmericanWriters
Should Heaven send me any son, I hope he’s not like Tennyson. I’d rather have him play a fiddle Than rise and bow and speak an idy…
When I consider, pro and con, What things my love is built upon— A curly mouth; a sinewed wrist; A questioning brow; a pretty twist Of words as old and tried as sin;
Although I work, and seldom cease… At Dumas pere and Dumas fils, Alas, I cannot make me care For Dumas fils and Dumas pere.
All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassel… Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles. Shiny day on shiny day
This level reach of blue is not my… Here are sweet waters, pretty in t… Whose quiet ripples meet obedientl… A marked and measured line, one af… This is no sea of mine, that humbl…
Her mind lives in a quiet room, A narrow room, and tall, With pretty lamps to quench the gl… And mottoes on the wall. There all the things are waxen nea…
Sleep, pretty lady, the night is e… Drift, and so lightly, on crystall… Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkn… Starlight bespangles the way of yo… Chorus the nightingales, wistfully…
So silent I when Love was by He yawned, and turned away; But Sorrow clings to my apron-str… I have so much to say.
Leave me to my lonely pillow. Go, and take your silly posies Who has vowed to wear the willow Looks a fool, tricked out in roses… Who are you, my lad, to ease me?
If I should labor through dayligh… Consecrate, valorous, serious, tru… Then on the world I may blazon my… And what if I don’t, and what if…
... So, praise the gods, Catullus… And let me tend you this advice, m… Take any lover that you will, or m… Except a poet. All of them are qu… It’s just the same– a quarrel or a…
Death’s the lover that I’d be tak… Wild and fickle and fierce is he. Small’s his care if my heart be br… Gay young Death would have none o… Hear them clack of my haste to gre…
In May my heart was breaking– Oh, wide the wound, and deep! And bitter it beat at waking, And sore it split in sleep. And when it came November,
Upon the work of Walter Landor I am unfit to write with candor. If you can read it, well and good; But as for me, I never could.
If you should sail for Trebizond,… Or cry another name in your first… Or see me board a train, and fail… Appropriately, I’d clutch my brea… And you, if I should wander throu…